


Don't Be Dead

by wordsofhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Grieving John Watson, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsofhoney/pseuds/wordsofhoney
Summary: John is trying to cope, he really does, but sometimes it's just too much.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Don't Be Dead

  
  


It’s been a week since Sherlock’s funeral. John was slowly going home from work, carrying a bag of groceries. The sun was shining, like nothing happened. John hated the sun. 

John stopped at the pavement before the door to 221B and looked up. He noted slight movement of the curtains – he forgot to close kitchen window again. With a hard sigh, John took out keys. 

Seventeen steps later John was entering the kitchen. He went straight to the fridge, now free from severed heads and mold samples, and full of mostly untouched food. John absentmindedly switched a bottle of milk to a new one. He turned to the sink to pour out spoiled milk – for the second time this week. John dropped empty bottle to dustbin, and reached for cups to at least make some tea. With a familiar movement he placed two cups on a table, dropped teabags inside both, added sugar to one, and stopped abruptly, staring at the bright red cup. He stroked its side gently, then drew a sharp breath, grabbed the cup and threw it across the room.

There was a bang as cup shattered in a couple of pieces against the fridge. John stood in the middle of the room, hands clenched into fists by his sides, breathing heavily, trying to compose himself. After a moment he gave up and let out a whimper, then another one, and then another. He screwed his eyes shut and pinched the nose, trying to stop the sobs. Like this John turned to the living room and leaned onto his chair. A couple of tears fell onto the red upholstery. 

“Please,” he whispered, “Please, Sherlock… don’t be dead.” 

The room was silent. John opened his eyes and looked at the Union Jack pillow that was glowing softly in a beam of the setting sun. With a last sob John raised his head, and froze still. 

In the black chair, eyes wide open, hair dishevelled, was sitting Sherlock.


End file.
